


Second Chances for Tragic Circumstances

by andthelightbulbclicks



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bellarke Secret Santa, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Nightmares, Picasso is the best dog around, Post-Season/Series 07, Post-Season/Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthelightbulbclicks/pseuds/andthelightbulbclicks
Summary: Clarke is eternally grateful that her friends chose to forego Transcendence to live out the rest of their human lives on Earth with her and Picasso. She thinks they’ve finally found peace, and she’ll pay for it by reliving her greatest regret whenever she closes her eyes for the rest of her days.But what is she supposed to do when she receives another visit from The Judge? And with it, her greatest regret comes hurtling straight back into her life?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Madi, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin & Madi, Clarke Griffin & Picasso
Comments: 18
Kudos: 90
Collections: Bellarke Secret Santa 2020





	Second Chances for Tragic Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WonderWomanForEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderWomanForEver/gifts).



> For Bellarke Secret Santa 2020, @wonderbatforever requested "Clarke has nightmares after killing Bellamy, realizes her feelings and tells someone." One of their other requests was for fanart that was a reunion on Earth after Transcendence. 
> 
> I cannot draw to save my life, but I _did_ have this fic idea run through my head like crazy with a mind of its own, so I used that request in the fic as well, especially since they were soooo incredibly patient with the lateness of this fic!!
> 
> I just want to put out there that I did not watch the last three episodes of the show, and will not pretend that I have annnny clue how Transcendence works, lol. Nonetheless, this was very cathartic to write and I hope you all enjoy it!!

Clarke sees the sketchbook in his hands, her _best friend’s_ hands, and she can’t believe that it’s come down to this.

“ _Clarke_ ,” Bellamy pleads with her. “This isn’t about Cadogan. This is bigger than all of us.” He implores as tears roll down his face, her own burning in her eyes.

_The book, the book, the book._

_Madi, Madi, Madi._

“Don’t make me do this,” she begs him, even as she keeps her gun steadily aimed at his chest.

_Please, please, please don’t make me do this._

Clarke knows the next lines by heart—

 _You’re not going to shoot me Clarke,_ he’ll tell her softly.

 _The bridge will close. You should go,_ he’ll reason with her.

He’ll point out the lengths she’s willing to go to protect someone she loves, he’ll tell her all the suffering can end as she closes her eyes on a sob, shaking her head futilely. 

_This is how we’ll do better,_ he’ll say with finality. _This is the only way._

Clarke knows the drill by now. She lives it every night.

Except tonight, it’s different.

“Don’t make me do this,” she begs him again. And instead of the lines she knows by heart, instead of him looking at hear with eyes full of tears and words pleading to reason with her, when Clarke looks at Bellamy across the room, his face is unreadable. His face is stone, staring back at her with nothing but judgement in his eyes.

Clarke falters, her gun tilting as she watches Bellamy take a step close to her. 

“Come on Clarke, you and I both know how this ends.” His tone is calm, achingly soft with none of the accusations she’s imagined it holding, even as his cold eyes remain locked on hers.

Another step closer, and Clarke feels her tears soaking into her shirt as the familiar feeling of her finger tightening in the trigger begins. She fights are arms, forcing her hands just upward enough to aim high as the trigger is pulled, the gunshot flying just past his shoulder as he takes another step.

“Now, now Clarke. That’s not how it goes,” he contiues with what almost sounds like challenge in his voice.

Clarke shakes her head. That’s what she _should_ have done.

Her finger tightens on the trigger again against her will, and she forces herself to angle the gun at the ground at the last second, the bullet tearing through his white shoe. 

But still, he does not falter. He does not stop moving towards her, no reaction at all to the bullet hole in his foot.

She could have shot him there, she could have aimed for his leg, for his arm. She could have just _not shot at all._

Clarke feels herself losing her breath, feet locked in place as Bellamy stops just feet away from her, cold eyes now blinking with judgment. 

Clarke’s entire body is shaking as Bellamy reaches out to where she’s still holding her gun, lifting it with a finger so that it’s aimed right at his heart.

“We both know you didn’t miss,” he whispers. For all the judgement in his eyes, his tone is still just as soft. “You didn’t aim for someplace that wasn’t fatal either,” he adds, amusement underlying his tone as if any of this is funny.

“Bell—,” Clarke chokes out, finally seeing how this is going to end.

“No Clarke,” he cuts her off, voice becoming harsh in an instant. “You aimed right here,” he gestures to his chest, where the gun has settled with her steady hands that should be shaking. “You made it a kill shot.”

The words are a blow she feels straight in her lungs. She did make it a kill shot, she knows she did.

After all, he once told her that was the only way she could stop him.

Clarke feels her fingers tighten on the trigger one last time, even as she fights it with everything she has.

“No, no, no, _no_ ,” she begs. To him, to herself, to whoever keeps making her do this every fucking night.

It doesn’t matter though. They both know it.

“We know how this ends,” he repeats in a whisper, eyeing her knowingly.

He’s right, she does.

So she closes her eyes as the final gunshot rings out, finding its home in her best friend’s chest.

* * *

Clarke wakes on a gasp, bolting straight into a sitting position in her bed as she heaves lungfuls of air.

Her skin is covered in goosebumps as she scrambles to find the blanket she had draped over herself before going to sleep. Her cabin is freezing, the fire burned out, leaving the room in darkness.

She feels Picasso fidgeting on the bed next to her, whining even as she attempts to curl herself into Clarke’s side.

“It’s okay, girl,” Clarke tries to soothe her, even as Clarke’s own anxiety is racketing through her.

As her eyes adjust to the lack of light, the moonlight shining through the windows provides her with enough sight to find the blanket haphazardly thrown onto the ground below her, lying next to her pillow that she undoubtedly launched from the bed in the fit of her nightmare.

Clarke grabs both, wrapping the blanket tight around herself until she’s curled into a ball with her head buried in the pillow, trying and failing to practice the breathing techniques Jackson recommended after the third night in a row she woke them all screaming.

Six months and individual cabins later, she’s getting no better at them, but at least now she’s far enough away that even if she does wake them, they can say they didn’t hear. Picasso is the only one who still acknowledges them. 

Her heaving breaths gradually turn into sobs, like they always do, Picasso wriggling under the blanket to settle as close to Clarke as possible.

It’s the same thing almost every night. The moment that has and will haunt her for the rest of her life here on Earth. But this one, this nightmare was different. It’s always the same, always the events that transpired all those months ago. The greatest failure, the greatest regret of her life.

She tries to close her eyes, but then opens them again immediately. Because if the nightmare changed as it did tonight, who’s to say it won’t be even worse the next time she falls asleep?

With that thought in mind, Clarke sits back up straight in her bed again, wondering what could have changed the nightmare.

Wondering who she woke this time around.

Wondering if her friends regret coming back for her at all.

And with each spiraling thought, Picasso works harder to calm her down, finally settling her head into Clarke’s lap and nudging Clarke’s thigh until Clarke threads her fingers through the dog’s soft fur.

She knows she won’t sleep, but she calms enough to allow Picasso to drift off.

* * *

She stays awake for the rest of the night, until the first rays of sunlight begin to creep through the windows, signifying the start of yet another day.

Picasso is stretched across the bed, still passed out, so Clarke carefully extricates herself from the bed to let the poor pooch rest for a little while longer. She doubts anyone else is awake, but that doesn’t stop her from throwing on her warmer clothes and boots and heading out into the circle to start the fire for breakfast.

Six months ago, The Judge and Clarke stood on the beach as they explained to Clarke that her friends gave up Transcendence to live out the rest of their human lives on Earth with her.

Amongst everything else that had happened, it was the happiest Clarke has been in a very long time.

They hugged and greeted her, welcomed her back wholeheartedly into the family they had built despite everything that she had done.

They came back for her.

They spent those first few months building cabins just inside the tree line off the beach off of the river. It had become a symbolic location for them, and they wanted to stay close to it.

Ten cabins.

Murphy and Emori.

Octavia and Levitt.

Raven and Echo.

Miller and Jackson.

Jordan and Hope.

Niylah.

Gaia.

Indra.

Clarke.

It’s all they’d ever need, plus one extra for if ever a couple broke up or needed space.

No children to prepare for, no growing of their family any more than the fourteen of them.

They gave it all up for her.

And with that, the waves of guilt she had fought so hard to keep out barreled right back in.

Her only consolation was that they were with their partners, even Indra and Gaia had one another.

The odd one out was Clarke, always Clarke.

She briefly fancied the idea of starting something with Gaia as the last cabin was built, but one sad shake of the head from Gaia, not even a mention of his name, and Clarke knew it would be doomed to fail. 

Besides, she doesn’t miss the looks between her and Nailyah.

Because in those first six months, before the weather got colder and before the cabins were built, they camped out on the beach together, and everyone was privy to Clarke’s nightmares. The screams, the tears, the pleas, _his_ name on her tongue. 

They didn’t have to ask what the nightmare was about, they all knew.

But they’re kind enough to comment. Octavia and Raven tried to at first. Then Miller and Murphy. Hell, even Echo took a shot at it.

Clarke shut them all out. She doesn’t deserve the comfort after everything she’s done. If they gave up everything for her, the very least she can do is not drag them down with what goes on in her head.

Clarke stops in her tracks as she steps outside her cabin to find the fire pit located in the center of the circle of their cabins is already ablaze, meat from Echo and Indra’s last hunt already sizzling in a pan.

She cautiously walks forward to the figure hunched over the roasting meat. “You’re up early,” she notes, settling down on the log directly behind him as he cooks.

Murphy just grunts in response at first, clearly not fully awake yet. “Been up for a while,” he comments without turning around.

“Me too,” she says quietly, more to herself than to him.

“I know,” Murphy says, finally turning to glance back at her. The way he says it is as knowing as the look he gives her, and Clarke finally understands why.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes on instinct, adding to the list of things that are her fault. She should have built her cabin further away.

At that though, Murphy’s eyes soften. “Nothing to apologize for,” he tells her, and the earnestness in his voice has tears pricking at the corner of Clarke’s eyes. “You always overcook the dear meat anyways,” he mumbles loud enough for her to hear as he turns back around.

And that, for whatever reason, brings the smallest of smiles to her face as she huffs out a breath that could almost pass for a laugh.

* * *

The day goes by much like the others.

Some scavenging for bunkers, some go hunting, some go fishing, some stick around their village and continue readying it for the winter months. 

And Clarke, well, Clarke goes to her spot and draws.

Her spot is nothing more than the edge of a cliff on one of the hills a ways away from the cabins. Miller had found her a journal in one of the bunkers a couple of months or so back, tearing out the few pages written on from its previous owner and gifting it to Clarke one night around the fire.

In true Miller-fashion, there was no fanfare to it, just simply plopping it into her lap with a glint in eyes before heading back to his cabin hand-in-hand with Jackson.

At first, Clarke left the book untouched on the table Jordan had crafted, having still too much to work on with the cabins. But once everyone was settled comfortably, a bed and table and chairs, even some personal knickknacks strung throughout, Clarke finally dared to spare her attention on the book.

She grabbed it, snatched some charred pieces of wood from the fire in the circle, and headed out into the woods. For what, she didn’t know at the time.

Until she found her spot. She’s come practically every day since just to be by herself for a while. She’s eternally grateful that she’s not alone for the rest of her life, but she can’t shake the need for some solitude as well. Even Picasso doesn’t follow her.

With winter practically here, the boulder that Clarke settles on is frigid, the cold seeping into her pants, even through the blanket she drapes over it first.

That first day she came here, her hands took on a mind of their own with the charred bits, until the beautiful face of her daughter was smiling back at her.

 _Madi_. 

The ache in her chest never leaves when thinking about her, and so she often becomes the focal point of her drawings, of happier times, of them in Eden together or of Madi running around with Picasso.

Clarke’s drawn everyone she misses. Her dad, her mom, Madi, Wells, Lexa. But never _him._

Whenever she tries, she returns to the village with tear-stained cheeks and a blank page.

That is, until today.

She doesn’t even remember starting the drawing, finds herself lost in thought, thinking about the nightmare she had and how different it was from the others.

And when she comes too, she looks down and drops the journal in her shock to bolt into a standing position.

Her entire body is shaking as she looks down at the book on the ground, to where her newest drawing is looking up at her.

Because there’s Bellamy, with that same cold, judging expression, staring back at her, reaching for her, almost straight off the page.

* * *

That night, Clarke finds herself around the fire with everyone, discussions of the incoming cold and bouts of snow already sprinkling the ground the topic of discussion as they eat the rabbit stew Murphy made with the few vegetables Echo and Hope were able to grow before the first frost.

She can’t stop thinking about that sketch.

How she tore it from the journal and shredded it into pieces before throwing the remains off the cliff and running back to the village.

How eerily accurate it was to the images from last night.

Picasso hasn’t left her side since she returned.

Clarke can hardly hear the words echoing around her as her mind drifts back to those cold eyes for at least the hundredth time. They weren’t cold in life, his eyes were never cold. Even when he was mad, he—

“Clarke?”

She jerks her head to Jordan calling her name.

“Hm?” She knows she’s been caught lost in thought, not even sure how to respond to the question she’s surely missed.

Jordan looks at her worriedly, as do the others whose conversations have all stopped to look at her. “I said are you okay?” Jordan repeats. “You look a million miles away.”

Clarke can certainly agree with that, she _feels_ a million miles away, with no hope of getting where she needs to be.

She can feel everyone’s eyes on her, anxiously waiting for her response. “I’m fine,” she says wanly, knowing she’s not convincing any of them. “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

She’s not sure why she says it, because they all know, and they all give her the same sad smile that she thinks is their way of expressing understanding.

“I’m, uh—,” she says suddenly as she stands from the log she was sitting on, Picasso already standing to attention. “I’m going to head in for the night. Good night,” she mumbles quickly, making a quick escape with Picasso on her heels before anyone can stop them.

She thinks she hears them whisper a chorus of ‘good nights’ back, but all Clarke can hear in their voices is pity and sorrow.

* * *

_“Clarke_ ,” Bellamy pleads with her again. Just like last night, and the night before that, and the night before that.

Just like the night it happened for real.

_The book, the book, the book._

_Madi, Madi, Madi._

The same mantras echo through her mind, just like they always do.

“Don’t make me do this,” she begs him, even as she keeps her gun steadily aimed at his chest.

_Please, please, please don’t make me do this._

Clarke knows the next lines by heart, she _hopes_ they’re the lines he’s told her every night for six months. She prays for the words in a twisted way even though she knows how it ends, just as long as they’re not different like they were last night.

But it’s wrong of her to hope, pointless too, because when she looks at him, the same cold expression is gracing his features, hard judgement in his eyes.

_No._

She can’t do this again. She _can’t._

Her hands shake as she fights the aim of the gun, but this time, she can’t even try to tilt it up or down even the slightest as he marches towards her. 

He’s faster this time, determined.

“We know you do it, so why are you hesitating?” He demands angrily, standing in front of her faster than Clarke thinks should be possible. 

She continues shaking her head as tears roll down her face. 

He’s right, she knows how this ends. Her hands even stop shaking as she holds the gun at him, right at his heart, like always. She closes her eyes before the inevitable happens.

“Oh no,” he says, pulling her attention back to those cold eyes as she opens them in shock. He’s glaring at her, even as a cruel smile twists his features. “If you want to make it a kill shot, you _make sure_ it’s a kill shot.”

Clarke stands there, frozen, horrified, as he again reaches out to the barrel of her gun. Only this time, he settles it right against his forehead.

“Do it,” he orders, eyes locked on hers as she gapes at him, her head shaking at what he’s telling her to do.

“ _No,_ ” she pleads, desperately trying to move her hand, even as she feels the familiar feeling of her finger tightening on the trigger. “Bellamy, _please._ I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ ,” she sobs.

Still, her hand remains steady.

“Do it, Clarke!” He yells, eyes smoldering with anger, pushing his forehead further into the gun. “ _Do it!_ ”

Clarke screams as the tension in her finger pulls taut, clenching her eyes closed because she can’t look.

She can’t, she _won’t_ , as the gunshot rings out and—

* * *

Clarke startles so quickly into the land of the waking that she hurtles straight off of the bed and onto the frigid ground, her blanket twisted around her legs and Picasso trailing after her.

But all Clarke can do is heave into the ground, thinking she might be sick, or scream, or sob until the Earth takes pity on her and swallows her whole.

She thinks she might hear Picasso whining at her, maybe even barking, but it’s background noise compared to the wails wracking her body and the pounding of her heart in her ears.

She has to get out of here, the walls of the cabin are closing in and _she needs to get out._

Unthinking, she stands on shaking legs and scrambles for her door. As it swings open, she falls face first into the dirt and snow in her haste to get away. She crawls a few steps forward, her knees dragging across the ice and mud. The cold is a welcome shock to her system, so she pauses where she is, ignoring the persistent nudges from Picasso to get up, and kneels there, letting the cold seep into her.

It’s about the only thing she can feel right now.

“Clarke!” A startled voice calls out from where Clarke thinks the fire is still burning, but all she can focus on is the cold of her palms, and knees, and toes.

But then there are two hands pulling her up from under her arms, dragging her toward the fire. The voice is talking to her, saying words that don’t make much sense at all to her, as the body attached to the voice places Clarke on the log closest to the fire.

“Just—,” Octavia hesitates while looking down at her. There’s a fear in her eyes that Clarke feels guilty for putting there. “Just stay right there. I’ll be right back,” she promises before running back towards Clarke’s cabin. “Picasso, stay,” she calls over her shoulder as she goes.

Picasso doesn’t seem to need to be told twice as she settles on top of Clarke’s frigid bare feet.

Clarke must blink no more than twice when Octavia is back in front of her, wrapping a blanket around Clarke, and then another around that, before pulling her feet out from under Picasso to slide Clarke’s boots on her.

As soon as the boots are on, Picasso resumes her position, leaning all of her weight against the front of Clarke’s legs.

Octavia’s talking again, but the words aren’t making much sense at all.

“ _Clarke_ ,” she repeats for what is definitely not the first time, but it finally gets her attention.

Clarke feels herself looking up at Octavia and feeling like a small child. Octavia, to her credit, just sighs and settles down next to her on the log. “Clarke, _what_ is going on?”

Her voice carries worry and fear, but they’re not supposed to have to have those feelings anymore. They’re supposed to be happy now.

Clarke feels the familiar wave of guilt, opening her mouth to try and explain. Explain what, Clarke doesn’t know. How does Clarke tell Octavia she keeps reliving her brother’s murder? A murder Clarke committed herself? It doesn’t matter, because all that comes out is another choked sob. One turns into two turns into an unbroken stream of them as Octavia wraps her arms around Clarke and tries to soothe her.

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke whispers. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

The words pour out of her once she can finally speak. From the way Clarke can feel Octavia tense, Octavia knows exactly what Clarke is talking about.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” Octavia tries. “You did what you had to do to protect Madi.”

“But I didn’t!” Clarke says sharply, fresh out of tears. She sits up straight, pulling out of Octavia’s arms in the process. “I _didn’t,”_ she repeats.

“I could have done— so many things differently. He was _right_ , Octavia. He was right and I killed him because of a stupid book and I lost Madi anyways and he should be here,” Clarke feels herself rambling. “He should _be here._ ”

Her words ring out into the silence, the only sound being the crackling of the fire in front of them. It’s only now that Clarke realizes that Octavia must have been sitting out by the fire still by herself when Clarke barreled out of her cabin.

The silence carries on as Clarke watches Octavia, who takes a shuttering breath before speaking.

“He should be here,” Octavia agrees, the truth of it allowing Clarke to take a breath that is marginally deeper than the last.

“And he’s not because of me,” Clarke says.

At that, Octavia shakes his head. “No Clarke,” she says softly. “He’s not here because we wouldn’t listen. We didn’t give him a chance, when all he ever did was give us second chances. And third and fourth chances in Murphy’s case,” she adds in what Clarke thinks might be an attempt at a joke.

It doesn’t land, they both know it.

If anything, it just makes Clarke tremble again thinking about how willing he always was to listen to everyone. How self-sacrificing he was.

“I relive that day every night,” Clarke rasps out, the barrel of the gun to his forehead burned into her vision.

“I know,” Octavia answers simply, reaching out to pull one of Clarke’s cold hands into both of her warm ones.

“And I think my mind wants to torture me more, because now it’s different, crueler, if that’s even possible. And I want to stop it so badly, take it all back, and I _can’t._ ”

Clarke has been looking at their hands as she spoke, but she looks up at Octavia now. She can see Bellamy in her, despite how different they look. Still, he’s there.

“I miss him so much,” Clarke dares to whisper.

It’s selfish. She shouldn’t get to say things like that, not after what she did. “And I know I have no right to miss him—“

“Says who?” Octavia interrupts her, that Blake fire making her eyes flash. 

“Says the fact that I’m his murderer,” Clarke retorts, feeling a flash of misplaced anger rise within her. 

“You were much more than that to him, Clarke,” Octavia responds with a simplicity that washes away any anger Clarke felt and only leaves rotting guilt in its wake.

“Don’t,” Clarke says, pulling her hand away to wipes at her frozen tears.

“Don’t what? Don’t talk about how you were his best friend? How you meant the world to him? And you the same for him?”

“Don’t try and wash away what I did to him with these feelings of— of—”

“Love?” Octavia finishes for her with a challenging quirk of her brow. 

Such a simple word.

But it sucks the air out of Clarke’s lungs and destroys any words about to roll off her tongue.

She loves him, of course she does.

 _Loved._ Past tense.

He’s no longer here to love. She made sure of that.

Octavia must be able to read her thoughts as she says, “oh don’t be going there, Griffin. I’ll love my brother till the day I die. And I expect it’ll be the same for you too.”

Clarke looks at her again, the truth of it overwhelming in the most tragic of ways. She looks down at her boot-covered feet, her longer hair falling like a curtain around her.

“I loved him,” Clarke dares to whisper, sure Octavia can’t hear her.

“No, you _love_ him,” Octavia corrects her, determination evident in each word she speaks.

Clarke opens her mouth, nothing coming out but silence. She tries again, because if nothing else, Bellamy Blake deserved all the love in the world.

“I love him.”

The world doesn’t end for a third time, but Clarke feels like it should.

* * *

Octavia comes back to Clarke’s cabin that night and holds Clarke tight, Picasso snuggled into her other side. She has no intentions of falling asleep, but she must at some point, because the next thing Clarke knows, the light of the sun is shining into her eyes, waking her.

The sun wakes her up, not another nightmare.

She thanks Octavia for the night before, gives Picasso an extra treat for dealing with Clarke’s crazy, and pulls herself out of bed, refreshed for the first time since calling Earth home again.

* * *

Clarke chooses to be more productive with her day than she’s been in the past weeks, offering to go and collect some more firewood before they get a snowstorm that covers everything and leaves all of the wood damp for months.

The chill of the morning is a balm to her senses, making her feel more alive than she’s felt in a while as gathers and logs and twigs she can find that’ll be useful in keeping them warm during the winter.

She pushes the scrappy barrel Miller put together, the logs she collected rolling around in it as she wanders through the woods, grateful Gaia and Indra went hunting in the opposite direction and there’s no other threats to worry about the need to be quiet. She turns the barrel back towards the way of the village, finding her direction is slightly off when she ends up just left of the village and on the beach of the river that started their new life here.

The sound of the water is soothing in the same way that the cold has been today, calming Clarke in the silence. 

Still, that doesn’t stop Clarke’s natural instinct to keep one ear open for danger, for anything out of the ordinary, just as she does in the woods.

And the sounds of crisp leaves being stepped on is certainly out of the ordinary. 

She thinks at first it’s one of her friends coming to help with the wood, but as she looks at the tree line where the sound had come from, nobody emerges.

Clarke’s immediately on edge, hand automatically reaching for a gun at her hip that’s not there. She hasn’t been able to willingly keep one on her since the last time she held a gun nearly doomed all of humanity. The time before that, she killed her best friend.

“Hello?” She calls cautiously, bending down to grab the knife she thought to tuck in her boot before she left, just in case. “Is anyone there?”

Another crunch of frozen leaves echoes over the sound of the water, before a figure emerges from the woods.

Clarke halts in her steps, mind unable to compute what she’s seeing.

“Wells?” She calls, not thinking at all, wasting no time to run across the rocky beach to reach out and tug him into her arms.

She can’t believe he’s here. _How_ is he here? How was he able to—

It’s then that she realizes that he’s hugging her, but not in the way she ever remembers Wells hugging her before. Sure, it’s been over a century, but he wouldn’t be hesitantly wrapping his arms around like her like he’s unsure of an action so foreign.

“Remember Clarke, I’m not him.”

It’s Wells’s voice, without question. She’d know his voice anywhere. But she can agree that this isn’t him, even as she hugs him tighter, her eyes closing against her tears. 

“It’s as close as I’ll ever get,” she whispers resignedly to The Judge before pulling away.

The more she looks at The Judge, in Wells’s form, the more she can see it’s not truly him, but the physicality is identical to the last day she saw him at the Dropship.

She recalls The Judge taking the form of your greatest love, your greatest teacher, your greatest enemy, or a combination of the two or three. She supposes that they could take on a variety of people in her life— from Lexa, to her mom, to her dad, to Wells, to—

“It certainly can be said you were not without many mentors in your life, Clarke Griffin,” The Judge says in Wells’s voice, almost like they’re reading her mind.

Maybe they are.

Before Clarke can even respond to that comment, her mind’s already racing with reasons as to why she’d be visited by The Judge again, all leading back to one singular thought.

“What’s wrong?” She asks abruptly, worriedly. “Is Madi okay?”

The Judge gives her a placating smile, almost like they’re amused by such fickle human emotions like worry or concern. “Of course she is. She’ll be fine for the rest of eternity.”

Clarke thinks they’re trying to humor her, but their words have the opposite effect. “Right,” she retorts bitterly, the reminder that her daughter will live on without her for the rest of eternity hitting her square in the face all over again.

She restrains her frustrations, knowing The Judge has been more than lenient in their acceptance of humanity to transcend, in letting her friends come back to her.

“Then why the visit?”

“A delivery of sorts,” The Judge answers simply, face devoid of the emotion Wells always emitted.

“A message from Madi?” Clarke asks, unable to hold back her eagerness.

The Judge tilts their head at Clarke. “In a sense.”

That makes Clarke frown. For how high and mighty she found The Judge to speak the last time, she does not remember them being as cryptic as they are being now.

“What does that mean?” She asks, the suspicion clear in her tone.

“Just as the last time we spoke, I have a delivery. You humans continue to boggle me more and more. I’ve never experienced a species willing to sacrifice an eternity in Transcendence for a lifetime on a single planet.”

That piques her interest. 

Somebody is coming back. 

“Who?” Clarke asks breathlessly, mind already envisioning Madi emerging somewhere on the beach, irrational as it may be.

“Madi will never be able to return,” they remind her again. Destroying her hopes before they can even fully form.

“Then who?” She demands more firmly, incapable of hiding the hurt as her voice cracks on the words.

Instead of answering her, Wells’s eyes track to something behind her.

Clarke turns, following the direction of their sight, only to land on yet another impossible sight. Her body stiffens, frozen in place as the mystery person comes into view in a very similar way to how the rest of her friends were revealed six months ago.

His eyes are locked are hers instantly even from the distance of the beach between them. Clarke’s mouth drops open, trying to wrap her head around him standing there not as he looked the last time she saw him in white robes, but in new clothes she’s never seen, clothes similar to the ones Murphy and Miller wear. He’s holding what looks like a large box in his hands, an expectant look on his face as their gazes remained focused on one another as he takes a step forward.

Clarke falters, taking a step back.

She’s seen what happens when he walks towards her. How destructive she becomes.

He hesitates at her response, pausing before he takes the next step.

 _He’s not real_ , Clarke tries to rationalize. _The Judge is playing a cruel joke at her expense_. 

“Bellamy?” Octavia’s voice yells, appearing along the tree line right where the first cabin is built.

Clarke watches as Levitt comes up behind her, taking a hold of her hand as if to talk her down, until his eyes find Bellamy too and widen in shock.

Octavia pulls her hand away from Levitt to race down the hill, dodging rocks and bushes at record speed to get to her brother. “Bell!” She shouts again, only yards away from him.

Clarke watches as he places whatever is in his hands down on the gravel beach just seconds before his sister throws herself into his arms. Clarke can hear Octavia’s hysterical laugh from here, sounding equally disbelieving and positively joyful. 

Levitt seems to have called for the others as the ones who were in the village come running as well, Raven waving Echo ahead even while Echo insists on walking carefully down the hill with Raven towards the gathering crowd around Bellamy.

She imagines it doesn’t look much different from when they greeted Clarke on the beach, but she still can’t find a muscle in her body willing to move. She doesn’t understand, can hardly believe what she’s seeing.

“I don’t—,” she stutters, finding her legs again to take another step back. “I don’t understand,” she says aloud dumbly.

“After you shot him and left through the Anomaly, the remaining living disciples managed to get him back to Bardo for medical treatment,” The Judge explains neutrally as Clarke feels like she might be sick.

“He was alive?” Her voice is hoarse, hardly distinguishable. He was alive and she abandoned him on a foreign planet?

“He was,” they confirm. “Though not awake. Not unlike the state your friends Echo and Levitt were in before Transcending. Different from Madi’s situation given he would have recovered given time.”

The knowledge is impossible.

She _killed_ him. She was there. She’s relived it every single night.

“But they didn’t see him there,” Clarke argues, as if she has any knowledge about what Transcendence even looks like. She’s certain though that Octavia would not abandon her brother again if she knew he was there. 

“True,” Wells grants, “I thought it wise to give him some time.”

 _They kept him away_ , Clarke realizes.

“Give him time?” She rounds angrily on not-Wells, turning her back on the reunion occurring without her.

The Judge just gives her another one of those placating smiles. “You all thought he died in the name of Transcendence. He thought so too. He needed time to decide what his final decision would be— Transcend, or give it all up for a human existence.”

Clarke looks back around, heart nearly breaking at the smile on his face at something Miller just said to him.

“As you can see, he made his choice.”

Clarke whips her head back around with some sort of retort ready to spill from her lips, but The Judge is gone, Wells nowhere in sight.

She glances back to find the group guiding Bellamy up the hill towards the village, their backs all to her. She’s not even sure if the others even noticed her on the other side of the beach with Wells the entire time.

But Bellamy did.

She watches his head begin to turn to find her, she’s sure of it.

Her body sways forward involuntarily with the step she wants to take towards him. But she knows with one step, there’ll be another. And another, and another, until she’s running straight into his arms like she’s dreamed about endlessly when she’s not reliving the moment she murdered him.

She can’t, she _won’t_.

She doesn’t deserve to be so selfish when he’s in the predicament he was because of her.

That final thought jolts her into action, grabbing a hold of her barrel full of wood and turning the opposite direction back into the woods.

Her entire body shakes all the while, screaming at her to go the other way.

* * *

Clarke stays out in the woods until the sun sets and darkness falls like a blanket around her. She momentarily considers staying out in the forest all night, she certainly has enough wood to make herself a fire.

But that would be selfish, and she’s been selfish enough to last her a lifetime.

She’s knows her friends will come looking for her if she doesn’t return, and so she heads back, voices around the fire getting louder and louder the closer she gets.

When she breaks through the tree line, the voices go silent, all turning to watch her carefully. It’s instantly clear that they know she knows, so if nothing else, it saves them the trouble of revealing their exciting news.

She’s careful not to look at any of them, letting her eyes glance over each of them for no more than half a second before moving to the next. Looking, but not really seeing. And when her glance falls on curly hair, freckles outlined by the shadows of the flames, the glance is even shorter.

She ignores the stares as she drops the barrel near the rickety shed that is storing their dried wood for the winter, planning to load the wood and head to her cabin.

“I can get that tomorrow, Clarke,” Jordan tells her. She thinks he’s trying to be helpful as she pauses in her movements, but all it does is keep everyone’s attention on her as they wait for her response.

She nods her head, still not looking at them. “I’m going to turn in,” she tells the empty air in front of them before heading towards her cabin. She’s grateful when she feels the familiar bump of Picasso nudging at her legs. It gives Clarke the barest hint of calm with the turmoil stirring inside her as she gives Picasso a well-deserved scratch behind the ears.

It’s only when she’s in front of her door that Clarke makes a very important realization. 

Bellamy will need a place to stay.

And their last empty cabin is right next to Clarke’s.

* * *

The next week goes by much the same as that first night.

Clarke makes herself no more than a ghost within the village, escaping into the woods as soon as daylight breaks, feeding on berries throughout the day similar to how she lived when she left the gates of Arkadia after Mount Weather, and returning once night has fallen and heading straight to her cabin where food is waiting for her from Murphy.

Each of them tries to talk to her at some point, waiting up for her or staking out in the morning before she can escape. They attempt to reason with her, that she should speak with him, that this is a _good_ thing. Even Indra has wise words to share, but Bellamy steers clear of her, keeping out of her sight entirely, which only confirms that she’s making the right choice.

Picasso never normally follows her into the woods, but it’s like the dog as a sixth sense about Clarke, like she knows there might be a night Clarke won’t come back if she doesn’t go out with Clarke.

And the nightmares only get worse.

They’re still the same, in the sense that Clarke kills Bellamy. But it’s never the replay of events how they actually occurred, stretching so far now that Clarke is forced to stare down at Bellamy’s bleeding corpse, a bullet hold between his eyes, or in his heart, or in ten different spots in last night’s nightmare. It seems to be dealer’s choice at this point, Clarke’s self-loathing being the dealer.

She doesn’t deserve to be here.

She doesn’t deserve to live the rest of her life with her friends after everything she did.

She doesn’t deserve to know Bellamy is alive and here.

And he certainly doesn’t deserve having to look at his murderer, listen to her scream night after night.

So Clarke makes a decision as she returns to her cabin with Picasso late at night the following night.

She’ll remove herself entirely.

She deserves to live the rest of her life alone, so that she can’t cause him any more pain. She’s going to leave in the middle of the night, let them all live out the remainder of their lives together happily. Maybe The Judge will allow them to Transcend again without her to worry about.

Once Clarke is sure that the fire outside has been tamped out and that everyone has headed to their own cabins for the night, Clarke sits up from where she was lying in bed, Picasso sitting up with her.

Clarke grabs her satchel, throwing her few pairs of clothes and journal into the bag, along with the two apples and wrapping of jerky Murphy left for her for dinner the past couple of nights. 

As Clarke throws the satchel over her shoulder, Picasso begins pacing, whining as Clarke laces up her boots. She feels tears pricking her eyes as she kneels on the ground in front of the dog. Picasso comes up to her immediately, and Clarke buries her face into the fur at the top of her head, breathing her in. 

“I can’t be selfish with you too,” Clarke whispers to Picasso. “They’ll give you such a better life than I ever could.”

She places a kiss to the top of Picasso’s head as she loops the rope she tied around the leg of her bed to the collar around Picasso’s neck, knowing this is for the best.

As Clarke stands and heads towards the door, Picasso moves to follow her. The rope gives her the opportunity to follow, right up to the door, but then holds her back from leaving the cabin. Clarke watches as Picasso looks back at the rope, before trying to get to Clarke again, only to find she still can’t reach Clarke. Clarke would swear the dog looks at her with betrayal in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke tells her, voice full of tears, before closing the door on her final connection to Madi.

Clarke wipes the tears away as Picasso begins to bark in the empty cabin. She needs to get away before the barking wakes everyone up. 

So she starts running, and she doesn’t look back.

* * *

Clarke runs, but not far.

Nobody knows where her spot on the cliff is, so she decides it’s safe to hide out there until day breaks, so that she can move through the woods safely without getting lost.

Not that it matters now, her whole goal is to be lost.

Still, she wanted just one more sunrise up on the cliff.

She’s staring out at the frost-covered pines below her, allowing herself just one more minute before she gets up to leave, when there’s the scattered sounds of twigs breaking and snow crunching.

Clarke is immediately on the defense, again reaching for her knife until she sees a flash of gold racing towards her through the trees.

Picasso races up to her, pawing at her stomach excitedly until Clarke kneels down to her level. Picasso takes that as all the invitation she needs to start licking her face, making Clarke giggle, a foreign sound she’s not sure she’s ever made before.

“You just couldn’t stay, now could you,” Clarke tells her, even as she scratches at Picasso’s ears, secretly grateful that she won’t be entirely alone after all. 

Picasso’s tail wags excitedly, lifting Clarke’s spirits in a way that makes her believe she can do this. She had shouted into the void six months ago that she didn’t want to be alone, but she thinks she can do it with Picasso by her side.

“We’ve got to get going then,” Clarke whispers to her conspiratorially, moving to stand up. She freezes when she glances up and realizes Picasso isn’t alone.

“Hi,” Bellamy says from the tree line, looking exactly as he did on the beach, right down to the box in his arms, that up close, she realizes is a chest.

It’s the first words he’s said to her since he told her he was sorry.

Then she shot him.

The image plays out in her head like it does every night, and he just continues standing there patiently.

“Hi,” she finally says back as the gunshot rings out in her head. Her voice is strained, doesn’t sound like her at all. 

Bellamy opens his mouth to speak, then closes it to clear his throat before trying again. Clarke is mesmerized by seeing him alive and living, close enough for her to touch. “Um, do you think we could talk?” He gestures to where she was just sitting minutes ago, and she realizes maybe him and Picasso were watching her for longer than she realized.

She doesn’t think she could speak if she wanted to, nodding instead as she resumes her position on the rock, looking out at the trees again.

Picasso, seemingly content now that she’s found Clarke, trots off into the woods to probably chase a squirrel. Clarke wouldn’t know, she’s too focused on Bellamy settling down on the rock beside her, leaving enough space in between them for it to be obvious. He carefully places the chest he was holding down on his right side.

She waits for him to say something as she tries not to steal glances of him out of the corner of her eye. She’s studiously avoided him for a week, and now she can’t stop herself from staring. “This is a beautiful view,” he tries awkwardly, gesturing at the frosted trees stretched out before them.

It’s a valid attempt, but all it does is have Clarke finally turning to look at him fully with an unamused quirk of her brow.

 _Really?_ She conveys, knowing she doesn’t need to say it with him.

He ducks his head on a chuckle at that, shaking his head as if he should have expected it. “Right,” he huffs on a breath, before his mood shifts to something more solemn. “You were running away,” he chooses to say instead. “Again.”

It’s the _again_ that has her remembering why she was running. The first time, after Mount Weather, that was for her. This time, it was for him.

“I murdered you,” she reminds him bluntly. 

“Yeah I remember,” he throws back, as if he knew she’d say it. “I was there.”

When Clarke dares to glance at him, she’s startled to find he has the barest of smirks on his face. “Is my murdering you _funny_?” She demands, no one ever able to get a rise out of her as quickly as Bellamy can.

At least his response is more appropriate as he scoffs at her. “The farthest thing from it, actually. You shot me, Clarke, you didn’t murder me.”

Her name, in his voice, has a chill, the good kind, running up her back. The kind she should not be feeling with her best friend that she murdered in cold blood.

“I _might_ have,” she argues. “If you hadn’t Transcended, who knows what would have happened, you could have died! I _thought_ you died!” She doesn’t realize she’s flailing her hands and yelling until the birds in the trees below fly away in a flock, startled by the volume of her voice.

“And yet I’m still here, freezing my ass off, sitting on this cliff as you scare the birds off.”

He stuns her into silence. 

She doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t understand why he’s acting the way he is.

“ _Why_ though? Why are you here? You Transcended just like you wanted, you finally reached what you found in that stupid cave!”

“Yeah, and when I finally realized where I was, The Judge told me you would never be there and everyone else I loved chose Earth instead!” He yells back at her. _Good_. He _should_ be yelling at her. “Everyone was gone except for Madi!”

Clarke’s already gearing up with her next remark, only to have it dry up on her tongue at the mention of her daughter.

“You saw Madi?” Clarke’s voice is small, and Bellamy should not be softening at the sound of it. She wants him to still be angry. 

Bellamy heaves a deep sigh before answering. “I did. She’s the reason I didn’t come back as soon as I realized what had happened,” he explains. “She knew I was her only chance to get you these,” he says while waving a hand in the direction of the chest he was carrying. And then, inexplicably, he laughs. “The Judge kept trying to understand what Madi was doing, why I was helping, but they just couldn’t grasp it.”

“Grasp what?” She can’t help but ask.

Bellamy just smiles at her knowingly. “How love works,” he tells her simply with an intensity that takes Clarke’s breath away.

He must realize it, because he immediately looks down before turning to grab the chest and place it in between them. “I’m not going to pretend and say I understand how material items work in Transcendence, but Madi worked on these for months, or well, what felt like months,” Bellamy says with a self-deprecating smile. It’s the most of a smile she’s seen on his face since before he was kidnapped by the Bardoans. “I won’t pretend I understand how time works in Transcendence either.”

He gestures to the chest again, encouraging Clarke to open it. She reaches out cautiously, glancing at his encouraging gaze before lifting the lid.

Clarke gasps at the sight.

Inside, crammed to the max, are envelopes. All standing up straight, hundreds of envelopes filed crisp and neat aside for the one lying flat across the top of the rows.

Clarke’s eyes fill with tears as she recognizes Madi’s handwriting written across the front.

 _For when Bellamy returns,_ it says in her daughter’s messy script.

Clarke’s tracing her finger gently across the lettering, forgetting Bellamy is watching her until he speaks up again. “She misses you so much,” he tells her softly. “She wanted you to know that she’s okay, and that The Judge lets her check up on you in whatever way Transcendence will allow her. And she wanted me to give you these, so that you know she’s always thinking of you.”

Clarke grips the first envelope in her left hand as she runs her other hand across the firmly stacked envelopes until she reaches the front. Lifting the first envelope out, she reads, “For your twenty-fifth birthday.” It’s written in Madi’s writing, just like the other one she’s holding.

Clarke pulls out another, and another.

_For when you have a nightmare._

_For when you find yourself smiling._

_For when you dye your hair with berries again._

Clarke can hardly read the titles on the envelopes with how her tears blind her vision, finally realizing what Madi did.

She pulls another one out that takes the breath from her.

_For when you forgive yourself._

She looks at Bellamy, who’s smiling at her sadly. He reaches out carefully and takes the envelopes she was collecting in her hand and studiously puts them back in their original spots— all except for the very first one. 

_For when Bellamy returns._

“Read it,” he encourages her softly, gesturing to the lone letter in her hands, shaking as she trembles.

Clarke opens the envelopes with as much care as she can, lifting the letter from inside and noting that it’s filled from top to bottom with Madi’s writing.

_Dear Clarke,_

_I know you’re not going to want to, but I’m sure Bellamy is right beside you while you are reading this, and I want you to read the rest of this letter aloud. For me._

Clarke takes a deep breath, before continuing the letter aloud. She could do that for her baby girl.

“I know I can’t be there with you on Earth. Trust me, if I could, I would. But because I can’t be, I annoyed The Judge until they agreed to let me write these letters.” Bellamy softly chuckles at that, drawing a smile to her own face.

“I want you to know that I’m alright,” Clarke’s voice cracks, but she continues. “I miss you so very much, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m safe, and happy, and I got to spend time with Bellamy while he waited for me to finish these letters. I know you blame yourself, and I know when you find out that he’s alive, you’ll punish yourself for what you think you did. But I want you to forgive yourself, even if it’s not today. Bellamy needs time to forgive you too, but I know you’ll both get there, and I know you’ll both be happier for it.” Clarke pauses for a breath, feeling Bellamy’s gaze on the side of her head.

“You’ve both fought so hard for peace, and now you finally have it. Please choose to live happily Clarke, I want that for you more than anything in my ethereal being of a life. These letters are for every moment you will have in your life that I wish I could be there for, all the way to your hundred-and-second birthday,” Clarke reads with a watery smile. “Read them in the moments you are inexplicably happy, and during the times when you’re full of sorrow. Most importantly, read them and think of me. I love you, Clarke. Say hello to everyone for me and give Picasso some extra pets in my name. And remember, forgiveness is your and Bellamy’s ‘thing.’ Forgive yourselves, and each other. Love, Madi.”

There’s silence between them as she finishes the letter.

Clarke glances at the bottom to find one final sentence down the bottom, written in haste. She can tell because of how sharp and quick the lines in Madi’s handwriting are. She’s not sure why, but Clarke chooses to read the sentence silently.

_P.S. You should know that Bellamy is in a rush to get to Earth after hearing your conversation by the fire with Octavia! Love you!!_

She’s a mess of emotions as she’s simultaneously blushing, crying, and laughing, all in front of the man she thought she murdered.

She can’t bear to look at him, afraid of what she’ll be able to read in his face. Or worse— that he’ll have his emotions shuttered away.

Instead, she takes a shaky breath. If nothing else comes of this, she’s so grateful he brought this precious gift to her. “Thank you,” she whispers, eyes focused on the letter in her hands, already rereading lines in her head.

“You’re welcome,” he replies. And then says nothing else.

 _This is it,_ she thinks to herself. _He did the task Madi asked of him, now he’ll let her run away, never to be seen or heard from—_

“You know,” Bellamy cuts off her train of thought, running a hand through his air in that nervous way she recognizes immediately. “I _am_ angry.”

They’re the words she expected at the very beginning of this conversation, yet still, they startle her. 

“I’m angry at you,” he continues. “I’m angry at the circumstances that brought us to that point. I’m hurt and upset and angry,” he says with finality.

Clarke doesn’t know how to respond to the small outburst. Truthfully, she thinks he probably needs to yell some more, but he’s more so taking deep breaths to calm himself and prevent that.

So she nods. “And you deserve to feel all of those things and more,” she tells him, looking at him and trying to memorize everything from the dip in his chin to the freckles on his face. If this is the last time she sees him, she needs to make it count. “I’m so, _so_ sorry Bellamy,” she says with the purest honesty she has ever spoken. “I’m sorry for not trusting you. I’m sorry for not listening. I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me. I’m sorry for—,” her breath catching on a hysteric gasp. “I’m sorry for the end. For pulling that fucking trigger. I should _never_ have even thought about shooting you.”

The thought is insanity now, though she supposes she was a little insane in that moment.

She thinks this is it, she’s made her apologies. Words he certainly doesn’t need to accept, and this is where she leaves, disappearing into the woods, never to be seen or heard from again. She moves to get stand, but a warm hand grasping at hers stops her.

She looks down in surprise to find Bellamy’s large hand gripping hers firmly. She’s not sure who else’s hand she expected to find. He gently tugs her back down, still holding on to her hand as he clears his throat. “I’m hurt and angry and upset,” he repeats.

 _I know_ , Clarke wants to say. _You should be. You deserve to be._

But before she can get the words out, he continues with warm brown eyes meeting hers. “But— but I don’t want to be. And I don’t think I will be forever.”

It’s as if all of Clarke’s senses stop working for a moment as her heart begins to beat double time. 

She looks up at him to find the truth of his words emanating from him. He thinks he can forgive her, someday.

And maybe, just maybe, she could forgive herself too.

“Really?” She asks, voice small, as if the words he said will break and shatter if she speaks too loudly.

His answering smile is small, but it’s more than she thinks she’s seen in a good, long while.

“Where do we even start?” Clarke wonders aloud. If he’s willing to try, she certainly will too. She’ll stay for him, like she should have done so many times before now.

“From what I hear, we’ve got a lifetime full of peace to figure it out,” he teases with a grin that’s even better than the small smile he just gave her. She watches him as he turns to look out at the trees again, her hand still safe and warm in his grip, her other hand holding onto Madi’s letter.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she answers as her words call back to much simpler times. When he doesn’t respond with more than a squeeze to her hand, she dares to rest her head on his shoulder as they continue looking out at the snowy pines.

He doesn’t shrug her off, or tilt his head in the slightest, his gaze staying steady and straight even as their hands remain intertwined.

When he finally speaks, his words bloom warmth and hope in a way she doesn’t think anything else ever has.

“I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year @wonderbatforever! I hope you enjoyed this fic!!
> 
> -your Secret Santa :)
> 
> P.S. I find it hysterical that my Secret Santa fics for the past two years were mega-angsty AND counted as my post-season specs. What am I going to do now that there's no new season to spec about??


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